Those Girls in White Dresses
by Staccato Stop
Summary: Peeta Mellark never made it out of the arena and once again Katniss Everdeen finds herself pulled back into the dangerous realities of Snow's Panem. AU; Past Peeta/Katniss, Katniss/Gale, Eventual Katniss/Johanna.
1. Chapter 1

**Girls in White Dresses**

Exhaustion weighs heavy on my bones. I've run my body ragged in an attempt to outwit the nightmares. Even as my eyes slip shut, I know it won't be for long. Horrors lurk and lurch inside my head.

I'm cold, but the day is hot and bleak. Dusty, wide-eyed children corralled into unwilling lines stand stoically as I wander between them. The air is thick with dust.

"I volunteer." I hear the echo of my voice.

Those words tore from my throat. Like blinking, or breathing. "I volunteer." For her. For my pretty yellow haired sister in her Reaping's best. The sky is blue. Water is wet. I save her. Instinctual, mechanical. Without question.

I'm gasping on the stage. Like a fish choked by air. The faces of the crowd swarm into a smear of blues and browns. Terror is a black bag, is a wind tunnel, is standing up while falling down. I know it's him, the warmth lingering at my elbow. I want to see him again, but he's always lost in the corner of my eye. Eternally, my peripheral boyfriend. I try to catch him again, to catch that feeling. Prim's voice pulls my focus.

She sings sweetly in the crowd. _"Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true. Here is the place where I love you." _

I'm singing too. My hair pulled tightly into plaits. Dad smiles. Mom and the baby too. '_Here is the place where I love you_.' The table is bare, but the kitchen is warm.

"Because…because…she came here with me."

Cesar sits behind me. I crane my head to see, to remember. Peeta flushes. He stammers. He has the goddamn decency to look ashamed. I reel. I rush forward propelled by what was once fury, but now is something entirely different. He slips through my fingers.

There are children dying to a soundtrack of songbirds and a gentle breeze rustling the leaves. The smell of wet leaves and morning sunshine. I trek through the early fog. All alone in a forest, but hope drifts in on a dirty promise. Two tributes can live. I know the lie. I've read this story. Still his name erupts from my mouth.

"Peeta!" I scream. "Peeta, Peeta…Find him." The words swirl and repeat. And there he is. That face. That dumb smile.

"Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it."

I want to kiss him, but I can't make our lips meet. A haze of infection and sweat surrounds us. His clammy brow and ragged words, the desperation of our association. The fervor of a teenage affection. His chapped lips refusing to crash into mine. His fingers curl around my wrist, but I can't feel the pinch.

I should have kissed him more. I should have kissed him forever.

"I don't want to lose the boy with the bread." I whisper. I bellow. I cry.

I see him in the distance, but the light fades. I didn't want to lose the boy with the bread. He's the hand I want to clutch in the dark. The face I want to find in the crowd. There's a flash of light. Cato's face looms over me. His hands wrap around my throat. The gash on his forehead seeps. The smell of boy and blood overwhelms. His face disappears from sight. My fingers run along the cold reassuring length of an arrow.

"Go on, shoot." A myriad of emotions swim across his face. He is fury. He is crying. He is scared.

"And we both go down and you win. Go on. I'm dead anyway!" The façade shatters. "I always was, right? I didn't know that until now. Isn't that what they want, huh?" He volunteered. I volunteered. He grew up fed. He grew up clean, but there we stand, stood. "NO! I can still do this. I can still do this. One more kill. It's the only thing I know how to do. Bring pride to my district. Not that it matters."

"Not that it matters." I reply. Peeta mouths the words.

Something shifts. Resolution dances across that handsome face. When he falls, Peeta falls with him. I scream. I screamed. The mutts roared. Bone and cartilage cracked on sharpened teeth. The arrow I loose finds a home in Cato's head. Peeta's eyes are wide and dark.

Is agony contagious? My skin is in shreds too.

The arrow flies, flew. It's a haunting, hollow, wet sound.

"You're not leaving me here alone," I whisper.

The sun rose. Spite courses like fire set on brittle grass.

"…I'm more than just piece in their Games." Peeta words in my head.

My fingers fumble, but they find their prey. Berries slick and mashed cupped in my hand. The yellow, acid taste of contempt fill my mouth. Their cheers surround me. The shot came without warning. The impact knocks me flat. He anticipated my ending. The berries cascade from hand, a beautiful slow motion moment captured in the blinding sunlight. The tranquilizer floods my system. With a sluggish surge, I lick my palm clean. Like a cat on a warm summer day, I sprawl. The sky swirls while I drowned in anarchy and sedative.

"Because when he sings…even the birds stop to listen."

Because when he loved, even I believed.

"I knew…I was a goner."

My eyes snap open. Goner. Prophetic sap. The sacrificial lamb destined to die from the first act. Fucking Peeta Mellark. His pretty face joking over breakfast, painting like a boy with time to spare, dying horrifically like the boys you love sometimes do. I'm sweat drenched and shaken. The television blares in the living room. Tour starts tomorrow. Interview with Cesar today and then we're off. I shift to my side on the cramped sofa. Preliminary coverage has started. They parade the who's who in front of the camera. Finnick Odair smiles with his arm around Snow. Enobaria bares her teeth. 'Stay tuned,' they cry, 'countdowns of fan favorite moments.' Milking the Games for all they are worth. I resettle on my back. The ceiling fan spins a slow and hypnotic wobble.

"May the odds be ever in your favor." I whisper to the air.

Prim clatters downstairs. She looks beautiful in her pressed blue dress. She looks grown up in way that tugs at my heart. She waits in the doorway as I roll my creaking body from the couch. We shuffle to the kitchen and take up our places at the old wooden table. Prim places a glass of milk in front of me. I run a hand through the rat's nest that is my hair. Prim smiles. I slide my thumbs back into the holes worn into my sleeves, Peeta's sleeves. I snuggle into my stolen sweater and hug my knees to my chest.

"You want me to brush your hair?" She asks offhandedly. Casually. Breakfast is traditionally a judgment free zone.

"I think it looks fine like this." I pick at a small pull in the knee of my pants.

"You smell again."

If it were anyone else, I'd explode. I'd rage, but not at her, never at her. "I'm tired."

"I know, but at least let's wash your face. Ok?"

"Maybe." I shrug, noncommittal.

She slurps her milk. "Did you pack?"

"I don't need anything." The pattern of the wood in the table is suddenly of great interest to me. I swirl the drops of condensation in a senseless pattern.

"They'll be here soon to make you up."

To play dress up with their shiniest, new toy, but Cinna is a bright light in a dark room. "I know."

"You can do this." She assures me.

I laugh, harsh and cold. I've survived the past few weeks in a tranquilizer-induced haze. I don't remember leaving the arena. I fumble for the memory, but each time I come up empty. It's unnerving. I woke up in the hospital with Haymitch watching me, his eyes impassive. He still watches me. I catch him now and then. He holds my hair. We sit together in the dark, Peeta's memory occupying the space between us. The room fills with guilt. Hot, heavy and jagged. He picked me, but I think a part of him thought that maybe we'd both find a way out.

"Yeah." I answer. Her hand moves slowly towards mine. I nod slightly before she takes my hand.

"If anyone can do it, Katniss, you can."

She believes. I can see it in those big grey eyes. She'll always believe, my pretty kid sister. My stomach is a tangled knot of dread and panic. I don't believe in much anymore. She brushes the hair from my face. My eyes burn with unshed tears. I try to find words. A loud knock on the door interrupts us. It takes a moment before I realize I'm lying prone on the hardwood floor. My heart pound as my vision comes back into focus. There's tears and snot smeared across my face. Someone's still banging at the door.

"You're okay, Katniss. You're safe. It's just Effie at the door."

Crumbs of forgotten meals dig into my cheek. "I'm okay." I pause. "Don't let them in here!"

"I'll handle it." It's my mother's voice speaking from somewhere unseen. Her heels clack across the floor. The kitchen door clicks shut. A cacophony of voices fill the foyer, but the insufferable knocking finally ceases. Prim sits calmly beside me. I focus on the small crack in the plaster wall.

"I can't do this." I hear Effie titter in the hall. I cringe. "Can't do this."

"You have too." Prim's voice is hollow and older than I like.

"I know." The floor is cold against my cheek. "There's really no hope, is there?"

"There's always hope." She says quietly.

"You don't believe that."

"It's time to get off the kitchen floor, Katniss."

"Okay." I move unsteadily to my feet.

She pulls me towards the sink. The washcloth is rough against my cheek. With careful hands, she cleans my face. Tears, crumbs, sweat, and snot gently dabbed away.

"There you go." She tosses the cloth onto the counter. She gives me a small smile. "Better."

She's alive, I remind myself. I'd do it again. I wrap my arms tightly around her. Her chin presses into my shoulder. She's getting so big.

"You really do smell, Sass."

I smile at the childhood nickname. I can feel the ghost of rough hand gently tugging my braid, my father's booming voice admonishing me not to run in the house. I remember Prim's girlish giggles ringing out from the kitchen, the sight of my mother watching us from her chair, the needle in her hand never slowing.

"I know. I'm sorry."

She sighs. "No you aren't."

I snort. "You're right." I pull away. "I'm not." I glance towards the door.

"Waiting isn't going to make it any easier."

I turn back to my sister. Her hands don't shake. Her eyes aren't wide. She's solid, no matter how hard the wind blows. "How'd you get so tough, little duck?"

She grabs my hand. "I watched you."

Her smile is watery and small, but it warms me nonetheless. Effie's shrill voice echoes outside the door. My mother's valiant efforts at distraction are wearing thin.

"Okay."

"Okay." She nods.

Prim strides across the kitchen and throws open the door. Effie screams. She quickly covers her mouth. Apparently, that reaction was too over the top, even for a woman dressed head to toe in fuchsia and some kind of animal print.

"Katniss." That one word drips with pity and concern. I must be pretty pathetic if Effie isn't even upset with me.

I make a half-hearted attempt to flatten my hair. "I guess you have your work cut out for you."

Effie shuffles forward in towering heels. "No worries, my dear. We know Cinna can work magic. Come on let's get you upstairs."

I've seen Effie cry. The morning of Cesar's post game interview, I stumbled into her room. I don't remember how I got there. She sat at her dressing table. Her dark hair fell in soft curls to her shoulders. Her face was clean of makeup. She looked up at me over the rim of her glass. The brown liquid sloshed back and forth.

I swayed in the doorway. "Going to be a rough day." I clung to the wall. Too many drugs, not enough sleep.

"Katniss. You should be sleeping." She advised, but her tone wasn't quite right.

"Can't sleep anymore." I warbled.

She looked beautiful in that swathe of early morning light. She looked like a person.

"I'm sorry I freaked last night at dinner, Effie. I didn't mean to scare you." I shrugged. "Loud noises get me every time."

She turned in her chair. "The way you screamed his name, Katniss." She shivered. She tucked her hair behind her ear. "We carry on." She swallowed a mouthful of liquor. "We all have jobs to do."

I slide back to the present as we trek up the stairs. The others follow at a distance. Effie stays at my elbow. She's a comforting whirlwind of hairspray scented taffeta. Cinna waits with open arms. I settle comfortably in his embrace.

"How's my girl?"

"I'm holding up."

He raises his eyebrow, but doesn't call my bluff. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

He leads me to the chair. "Yeah." I mumble, untwisting my hair from its perpetual knot.

"You trust me, girl on fire?"

I gaze up at his reflection in the mirror. He stands behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders. There's no question in my mind. "Of course."

"Good." He smiles and spins me away from the mirror.

My eyes slip shut as his hands go to work. He effortlessly winds my hair into a loose braid. I hear the scissors before I feel the cut. He works quickly with sure cuts and precision. I hold tight to the calm I feel while his hands work.

"Open your eyes."

I do and he presses my bedraggled braid into my hand. My newly shorn hair tickles my ears.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it." I blurt out. I'm lighter. I'm brand new. I'm-I realize the eyes of everyone in the room are fixed on me. They have the decency not to comment on the fat tears that roll down my face.

"Good." He claps his hands together and grins. "Let's get you ready."

I'm washed and dried. Polished and shined. He shapes and buzzes my hair into something even I can recognize as edgy. My makeup is dark and hard. I'm costumed simply in leather pants and a black shirt. My boots are heavy and worn. I feel invincible. The little girl with her braid is no more. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I'm all hard angles and lines. They cut all the soft out of me.

Cinna saves the best for last. He's fashioned a simple burnished gold chain with an embossed mockingjay medallion and a single charm shaped like loaf of bread. I burst into tearful bout of laughter. He fastens the chain around my neck.

"The mockingjay and the baker's boy." He whispers.

I finger the delicate chain. The little loaf of bread is both the silliest and the most wonderful thing I have ever seen. "Thank you, Cinna."

"Time to feed the monster." He reaches for my hand and drops a kiss against my knuckles. "I believe in you, girl on fire."

My mother meets us at the bottom of the stairs. "Gale is waiting for you." She gently touches my face. "You look all grown up."

My face flushes. I shrug her off. "Where is Gale?"

Her smile is sad. "He's in the living room."

"Okay." I gently push past her.

Gale is waiting for me. His hat crumbled in his hands, his face smudged with grime from a half a shift's work.

"You look beautiful, Catnip."

They always say that like it's the most important thing. Like a pretty face is all I have to offer some days. After the Games, Effie watched as Haymitch jammed a needle in my arm so I could sleep. Effie gently touched my hair. 'You really are beautiful Katniss' Effie murmured in consolation. I find my way back to moment at hand.

"Thanks." I reply because I've learned that's just what you should do. "You like my new hair?" I turn my head back and forth.

"I do." He links his hands with mine.

I fucked him. In the aftermath of everything, it was his comfort I sought. I pulled him in with greedy hands desperate for intimacy. For a safe touch. For some sensation to still the ever present buzzing in my head. I didn't want to be touched, yet I wanted to be consumed. He was happy to indulge me. We fucked on the floor of my old abandoned house. He smelled like a hard day's work. His coal stained fingers left marks on my skin.

My hand brushes his arm. He's quieter now. Angrier too. The Capitol passed legislature promoting the use of clean energy. Twelve is dying. I think it's my fault. Punishment for the glimmer of rebellion Snow read in my eyes. Gale is simmering. He's the hub of a web of whispers. When the levee breaks, he'll be there, probably holding the axe. I don't know where I'll be.

"Me too..." I respond and run my fingers through my new hair once more. The team files past. Effie gestures exaggeratedly to her watch-less wrist. "I've got to get going. You want to walk me down?"

He shakes his head. "I just wanted the chance to say goodbye properly."

"Two minutes, Katniss." Effie yells as Cinna directs her out the door.

"Properly?" I ask. "How properly?" My body thrums in anticipation of his hands and his mouth. I step in closer.

"I want to make you feel good. But, we don't have much time." He murmurs into my neck.

"Lucky you've got a talented tongue."

His hand ventures slowly down my body. His fingers slide between my thighs. "Are you wet for me?"

I sigh and rock my hips searching for more friction. "I am for you."

He shoves the clutter off the armchair resting against the wall. He maneuvers me into the seat. I kiss him as his hands work at the fasteners on my pants. He bites my lip as he draws away. Roughly, he pulls my pants down around my knees. His hand slips between my thighs.

"I want to taste you."

"Yeah, yeah." I breathe.

His tongue pushes at my folds, hot and wet. I live in a constant state of arousal. At any time, I think I could come or scream. My fingers tangle in his hair. I yank him closer; my only intention is to ride his tongue to completion. I'm cresting. I'm on fire. I can't think. I can only feel. It's clear and it's easy. I cry out.

"You're beautiful." He gasps.

I struggle to catch my breath and ride the wave of pleasure. He searches for something to clean me up. He snags the box of tissues from the table.

"Come here." I tug at his collar.

We kiss. I savor the taste of him and me on his tongue. His hair's a disaster. His pupils are blown. I know he's hard, but he's already moving again. He's trying valiantly to paint me back into too tight pants.

"Wait. I have to take off this underwear. It's soaked."

He smirks, but the ensuing strip show unfolds clinically. It's not awkward. The moment's just gone.

I shove the swathe of green lace into his hand. "Here, going away present."

He shoves my panties into his pocket. I jam my feet into my shoes. I almost topple over trying to resettle my heel and zip my pants. He catches me by the elbow.

"Be safe out there, kid."

"Nothing's going to happen to me, Gale."

"The Capitol isn't safe. Just be careful."

"I will."

He kisses me again. Slow and lingering. We trying to have a moment, some kind of fond farewell, but the reality is he tongue fucked me on an antique chair and I don't love him. And he doesn't love me. We're just two bodies grappling for release. It wouldn't have mattered the cause, so long as I came. We lost ourselves in each other and now we're back on solid ground. He goes back into the mines and I disappear into the decadence of Snow's Panem.

"I'll see you in a couple weeks."

Something dark skates across his face. "Yeah, I'll be here." He heads for the door.

I bend to zip up my boot. "Are you going to watch?" I ask over my shoulder, but he's already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

The front door swings open. I sink into the chair. My fingers fumble with the fasteners on my boots. I flex my hands in an attempt to shake my nerves. I Haymitch shuffle by Gale and burst inside.

"Cold out there." He exhales in a huff. "Where's my girl at?" His voice rumbles through the quiet house.

I sink further into my chair. The tingling in my fingers spreads through my hands. I can't manage the fasteners on my shoes. "I'm in here." I answer. I try once more to lace up my shoes but my hands rebel. My vision blurs. Anxiety begins to eat away at small bit of clarity I managed to grab hold of.

Haymitch swaggers into the room. "Nice hair."

"Thanks." My fingers fumble once more. I sigh.

"Need a hand?" Haymitch crouches at my feet.

I fall back in my seat. I choke back a swarm of angry tears. I'm furious. I'm exhausted.

"Don't worry about it kid. Happens to the best of us."

"Haymitch."

He pulls the laces tight. I like the pinch around my ankles. "We gotta go. Cameras are set to roll. Wouldn't want to keep our fearless leader waiting, would we?" He rises slowly to his feet.

"How does this go?"

"You smile for the cameras. Read the cards Effie writes. Then we go home and live happily," he pauses and shrugs, "well, something ever after."

Haymitch pulls me to my feet. He pulls a small metal case from somewhere unseen. He removes a small yellowish pill. "Here." He holds out his hand to me.

Haymitch's hands are soft. My fingers graze his skin as I pluck the pill from his hand. His palms aren't callused. His nails aren't cracked. They aren't caked with a grit that no amount of washing can ever seem to eradicate. His hands aren't like my father's, aren't like Gale's. Even Peeta had hands rough with work. I pocket the pill. Haymitch raises an eyebrow. I itch for the relief of a synthetic calm, I consider Haymitch once more. What do those hands do now? Pour drinks? I run my thumb across the new blister forming on my shooting finger.

"What if I don't go?"

"He kills your sister and your mother. Then, you do the tour anyway on some compliance-inducing drug they whipped up in a lab." He pushes his blonde hair back away from his face. "We talked about this."

My stomach clenches. I've heard his screams in the dark. I've caught glimpses of worn photographs hidden away in dusty boxes. "Is that what happened to you?" I mean to pry gently, but the words fall callously from my tongue.

His gaze turns dark. Then in an instant, his demeanor shifts from angry to insouciant. "You've got something on your face, sweetheart. How's the new boy toy?" He laughs and tosses me the handkerchief from his pocket.

"Thanks." I answer icily. I wipe the reminder of Gale from my face. "You look awful."

"Gee thanks, princess." He pushes his hair back once more and looks down at his outfit.

I step closer and scratch at a stain on his lapel. "Is that vomit on your jacket?"

He wrinkles his nose. "It's definitely breakfast."

"Pre or post digestion?"

He smirks. "A little of both." He offers jovially.

The tensions between us breaks and we laugh as Effie storms in from outside. She looks on disappointed at our antics. She huffs and crosses her arms. Haymitch just laughs harder.

He slaps his knee. "I see the ice queen has yet to defrost." He rummages around his coat pocket and produces a flask. He bows dramatically at Effie. "Drink, my lady?"

She huffs again and shoves past Haymitch. Her grip on my elbow is surprisingly gentle as she attempts to drag me towards the door.

"Everyone is waiting, Katniss." Her tone is clipped.

I pull away from her roughly. She teeters on her high heels. I see a flicker of fear flash across her face before her perfectly painted features settle back to a familiar mask of annoyance. Sometimes I forget I'm a murderer. Effie steps back and ushers me out the door. I gaze up at the sky. There's a chill in the air. It smells like snow. Haymitch pauses beside me.

"Does it get easier, Haymitch?" New knots twist and turn in my stomach.

He takes a pull from his flask. When he turns to look at me, I see for the first time how worn Haymitch appears. He shakes his head slightly. "No. Not in my experience." He offers me a drink.

The liquor burns all the way down. "That's strong stuff." I cough. The lighting technician waves a light meter in front of my face.

"It's that kind of a day, kid."

I stare out across yard. Haymitch's entire adult life seems to have been 'that kind of a day.' "Why'd you fight so hard to save me if you knew it would be like this?"

He takes another swig from his flask. "For twenty-three years, I've stood up on that stage alone and waited for whatever ridiculous creature the Capitol sent to select this year's cannon fodder-"

"Okay. Finally! We're ready Katniss." Effie interrupts. She pulls Haymitch out of frame.

Haymitch gives my hand a quick squeeze. Behind the camera, Prim stands next to Cinna. They both smile. I clear my throat. Haymitch grumbles at Effie off to the side. I'm eerily even. Prim mouths 'smile' from behind the camera. She sticks out her tongue and makes a silly face. I remember Haymitch's admonition from earlier in the night. I remember his words as he pulled the bottle of pills from my hand one sleepless night. I imagine what Peeta would do. I smile back at Prim. I can play pretend for a little while longer if it keeps her safe. I can. Effie reprimands Haymitch with a smack. I glance over at him. Twenty-three years is a long time. I fiddle with the chain around my neck. The camera whirs to life.


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n: New plot as of 2/6. Previous chapters updated to reflect this. **

**THREE**

Cesar did most of the heavy lifting. His shellacked lilac hair and piercing white smile dazzled under all the studio lights. I smiled. I laughed. I bit back my tears at the sound of Peeta's name. When the camera flicks off, I heave a sigh of relief and then promptly vomit into the grass. Through blurry eyes, I can see Haymitch stalks quickly back towards his house. I shake of my sister's concerned hands and take off after him.

"You stood on that stage for 23 years and what?" I call to his back.

He pulls open his front door. I scurry in behind him. "By all means come right in." He drawls.

Anger pools inside of me. I ricochet from down to up fairly unpredictably these days. "What's the rest of the story Haymitch?"

He ignores me once again and makes for the kitchen. He pulls a bottle down from the cabinet. He grabs two glasses from the sink and gives them a cursory rinse. I linger in the doorway and watch those unblemished hands work with precision. I storm across the threshold. He slides a glass down countertop towards me. He's resisting eye contact. He knocks back his drink and then another in quick succession.

"Haymitch."

He pours another drink.

"Haymitch. Look at me."

But, he won't. My fingers itch to hurt, to cut, to destroy. I grab the glass resting at my fingertips. It smashes spectacularly against the wall.

"What's going to happen to me?" My voice cracks.

Haymitch takes another sip. "Feel better?"

"No." I cross my arms.

He rinses another glass and pours me another. He pushes the glass into my hand. He snags the bottle and his drink and departs to the living room. I look at the glass spread across the floor refracting the dying light of a cold winter's day. I appreciate the delicious crunch of glass under my boots. I take a drink of water from the tap to rinse the taste of bile from my mouth. Through the window, I can see the crew cleaning up the remains of interview day. Effie and Cinna must be already inside preparing to leave in the morning. Cinna will head back to the Capitol. Effie, Haymitch, and I ship off to Eleven. After the memorial for Peeta that is. Victory tours begin at home. My fingers find their way to the chain around my neck. I scull my drink and grab a bottle of my own.

I take a seat in the armchair opposite Haymitch. I plant my feet firmly on the floor. "Talk."

"About what, Katniss?" He responds in a tired whisper.

"About what happens now. About how life goes now. What do I do? What do I say? Talk about those twenty-three years standing on that stage. Just say something." I run my fingers through my hair and consider the dirty clutter of Haymitch's otherwise empty house. In the fireplace, the fire flickers throwing shadows onto the walls. "How are you still here?"

"I've held the hands of," he scratches absently at his eyebrow, "fifty crying mothers." He empties his glass and slams it down on the table between us. He picks at his lip. "Fuck. I'm not drunk enough for this."

He stares up at me with those cold blue eyes. "Effie says we all have jobs to do." He scoffs, but I keep on. "What's my job, Haymitch?"

"Your job," he tilts his head, "is to be whatever our esteemed President Snow wants you to be. Right now, you need to be the naive girl from District Twelve. You need to be in awe of the splendor of it all. You need to be honored and appreciative. And you can't let them forget…" He drifts off.

"Forget what?"

He stares off into the fire. "You're still the star-crossed girl from District Twelve. He's always gotta be the name on your lips, that sadness in your eyes. They have to believe that you loved him. You have to find whatever warm feelings you can muster for the boy and make them believe it."

It's almost without a conscious thought that I throw my drink into Haymitch's face. "You can't even say his name! You sacrificed him and you can't even say his name!" I wanted to love him. I think I could have loved him. We didn't have enough time. These are the thought that rattle around inside my head.

Haymitch runs a rumpled sleeve across his face. "You need to stop wasting my liquor, little girl."

"Say his name." I demand. I don't know why this is so damn important. "Say his name."

"…Peeta." He spits. "You need to make them believe you loved Peeta."

"He's dead." The wet thwack of an arrow and bone rings in my ears. The memory of growls and the crunch of bone and flesh send a shiver down my spine. "So why does it matter if I love him or not?" I hear the slip of the tense. If Haymitch notices, he chooses not to comment.

"The 'girl on fire.' That's who you have to be. Katniss Everdeen is gone. The Capitol doesn't have the time or the attention span for the complexity and intricacies of this." He gestures expansively towards me with his glass. "You're genuine and good. You're a pretty face. You loved the boy next door and he was taken from you. You held that little girl's hand." He nods. "That's good. Yeah. You're a big sister. You're _the_ big sister."

The memory of Rue aches like a gaping, gangrenous wound. "Haymitch, I don't understand."

"We'll all play parts. This new look, isn't going to work." He bites at his nail and eyes me intensely. "Where's the girl with the braid and the dresses?" He shakes his head. "The tall kid's a problem too."

I run my hands self-consciously through my hair. "I like my hair." I retort almost childishly defiant. I take along pull from the bottle. "And what's wrong with Gale?"

"It's about you and…Peeta. That's the story. We can't afford to have them turn on you."

There's a sadness in his eyes that I don't think I understand. "What's so damn important about me and Peeta." What we were, it wasn't for them, and still it isn't for them. What Peeta means to me, I think it means less if they're a part of it. After all, they're the reason he's dead.

"I won't talk about him."

I fall back. Liquor sloshes from the bottle and seeps into the cream-colored fabric of my chair. The alcohol works quickly on an empty stomach. I feel the sad maudlin shroud of drunkenness begin to creep in. I take another long drink. Haymitch considers me over the rim of his glass.

"What?" I ask tersely.

"They love you in the Capitol, but fame is fickle. Next year, there'll be a new young thing for everyone to fawn over. They can't forget why they loved you."

"I just have to hold out until then." I lurch forward. "Haymitch, I don't want their adoration or their attention. I want to be forgotten." My tones turns accusatory, "Do you think I want this?"

"You never really win the Games." A log in the fire splits emitting a loud crack. I jump. Haymitch shakes his head. "Sure you get live, but you lose your life in ways you never could have imagined."

The familiar heavy silence that punctuates most of our recent interactions drifts in. Haymitch watches me with hooded eyes. He's right of course. My hands shake more often than not. My dreams are filled with blood and horror. Everyone in town eyes me silently with a slight flicker of suspicion. There slow anger permeates through the cold winter air. I am neither here nor there. Not Capitol, not Twelve. I linger in the ether. Sometimes here, sometime back in that arena. I drift. I fall. I slip and slide from present to past. From memories, to dreams, to cold hard mornings. In the forest cloaked in my father's jacket with the familiar brush of the fletching of my arrow between my fingers, only there can I sometimes find solace, find a calm. My boots sink into the mud. The sun shines through the trees. I react. I am precision. My body makes sense. Logic and order find me once more. They stole my certainty. I knew my life. I could see my future written in the hard lines and bodies of my fellow residents of District 12. I knew my job. I knew myself. I can't say that with any certainty now.

"Haymitch-" It's a combination of exhaustion and the heat of the fire, the sleepy pull of too much drink, and heavy thoughts, but my eyes slip shut. "I don't understand."

He throws the blanket from the floor at me. I snuggle into the familiar scent. I feel the ghost of a caress across my cheek. "And I hope you never have to."

I drift to sleep as Haymitch's footsteps recede down the hall.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

Traditionally, the Victory Tour starts in the victor's home district. It's only polite to bid farewell to your slain neighbor before running off to the other districts to sling platitudes and rhetoric at grieving mothers. I'm not prepared. I haven't an idea what I'll say. My head aches. The simple black dress I demanded to wear hangs mockingly on the clothing rack. My team abhorred the decision. They gasped in horror when I insisted I appear on a district wide broadcast in nothing more than a worn Sunday dress. The sequined silk horror they tried to force on me rests torn in the haphazard pile where I threw it. I can't stand on a stage painted like a doll and tell Peeta's mother her son died bravely and with honor. The words exist only in my mind, yet I feel the empty sentiment lodge in my throat. When Prim collected me from Haymitch's last night, she held my hand and promised it would be all right. I cried drunkenly at the hope in those two small words. I can't imagine all right. I look at her innocent face scrunched in sleep on the pillow next to mine. No one can promise that it will be all right with any certainty. Life will happen inevitably without our consent or control. I think what she meant to say was, 'we'll get through this'. Tomorrow will happen and then the tomorrow after that. I feel the urge to vomit. I can't tell if it's the prospect of endless tomorrows or the hangover.

The sun casts a sharp swath of early morning light through the window. I roll to my side to escape the brightness. I crack open my tired eyes. This awful day is waiting for me. That black dress, the tights, and the shiny black heels; the armor we don to combat grief, to make the outside match the in. The dress is too tight. The tights are itchy. The shoes cut my feet. If I wanted to say goodbye to Peeta, I'd find an open field. I'd wait until the sky faded from blue to orange and pink. I'd build a fire, massive and ruinous. I'd sing until my throat burned and my voice disappeared. I'd find a place inside myself to hold his memory without drowning in his loss. But, I'm not ready to say goodbye. I'm not ready to grow. I feel massive and ruinous. I feel stretched and destructive. I want to rage like a fire set free. I don't want to do this. I'm not equipped with the cognitive dexterity to reconcile my hate and sadness so I can put on a brave face for the crowds. Haymitch's words from last night nag at me. I can see that Twelve is dying and I know that it is partly my fault. I can feel Snow's breath on my neck, his cold eyes on my back. I know he is watching, but I thought that eventually he'd tire. I thought I would drift back into quiet anonymity. Mired in my own thoughts and worries, I sometimes miss the obvious. _Haymitch_. Every year they parade him in front of the cameras. Every year he watches two children randomly selected for slaughter and it's his responsibility to save them. Now I'm tasked with the annual horror of standing beside him, of smiling for the cameras every year, of being the girl with the dead boyfriend waiting for their permission to move on. Winning the games has nothing to do with winning at all. I realize that now. You're punished sadistically for surviving. Just the like districts. The phantom ache of burn long since healed radiates in my thigh. There are no winners in Snow's Panem.

My dress fits less tightly then I remembered. The tights still cling with their familiar tickle. Prim helps flatten my hair into a conservative semblance of neatness. My fingers move deftly through her silky light hair, pulling the strands into her requested braids. The morning is bright under the cold winter sun. Effie titters about downstairs. Her stilettos click and clack on the hardwood floors. I sit in the chair set before my vanity. My eyes drift to the tired girl staring back at me.

"I wish he never told me."

Prim rests her hand on my shoulders. "Who? Told you what?"

"He loved me...I didn't love him." I whisper. "Not the way he loved me. And now he's gone and they want to watch me cry for him…And I am crying for him." I knot my hands together, "But, I just wish, I wished that I loved him better…and then I feel guilty for making this about me. He fucking died and all I can think about is me."

"Oh, Katniss."

I jump and twist sharply in my seat. My mother lingers in the doorway.

"This part isn't ever really about them." She moves towards me. Her hand reaches out slowly to caress my cheek. "It's about us. It's about the people left behind." She tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear. "That boy knows you cared about him." She smiles sadly. "There's no right way to grieve. Some people fall apart. Some people grow hard. There's no right way."

"They're all watching me." Anxiety begins to pulse in my veins. "Haymitch says I have to make them believe the story or Snow will-"

"You're always you're best when you're just being yourself, Katniss."

"She's right." Prim wraps her arm around my mother's waist and leans into the embrace. "And you aren't alone in this."

I stare up at my mother. She nods. "Not alone, not this time." Her tone is serious.

I want to believe her. I need to believe her, but past hurts surge to the surface. Prim is starving and my mother is drifting. Her unfocused eyes look through me. Prim cries quietly. My head aches and my stomach cramps painfully for want of food, but she doesn't move. We're dying and she doesn't move. I want to forgive her. I want to wind my fingers in her skirt and rest my body against her. I want the familiar scent of home to ensconce me and hold me safely, but I can't tie my trust to a shoddy hold.

"Prim, go downstairs and help Effie with breakfast." My mother directs.

Prim looks to me for confirmation. I nod. I see the hurt flash across my mother's face. Prim gives me a small smile and bounds down the stairs. My mother kneels beside me and takes my hands into hers.

"I am so proud of you. You saved us when I couldn't. You saved your sister and I don't think I can ever repay you for that." She pats my knee. "I can't imagine what it's like inside your head, but I can see what they took. You were always stubborn, my little girl. You never wavered. You're a weed, Katniss. Like your father. Grow anywhere, anytime, and no matter what anyone thinks you thrive. Don't let them take that away from you. Don't let them make you less."

I want to love my mother. I want to crumble to the floor and seek solace in her arms. I think of Peeta in that cave, the warmth of his embrace, the heady rush of fear and distrust, of love and desperation. I could build a wall, a wall so tall that it blocks them all out. I could turn back inside myself and forget what it felt like let a person in. The angry words I've longer to spew spring forward in my mind. I could throw her to the floor. Spit on her kind words and motherly gestures. Too little too late, mother. They stripped me bare in that arena. I'm an exposed nerve. My skin crawls with worry, my stomach lurches with regrets. I don't sleep. Food tastes like ash. Sex feels like an empty promise. I could use the balm of another person against my skin. There's a strength in having bodies on your side. Maybe the uncertainty of the association is part of the trade off.

She squeezes my hand and looks up at me with wide, teary eyes. I don't believe her. Maybe in another life I slide from my chair and into her arms. I take the warmth I need and the comfort I desire. I wish I were that girl. I wish I were kind. I wish I were forgiving.

"I have to get ready."

She pulls her hand out of mine. "Ok." She stands and straightens her dress. "Ok. I'll be downstairs."

"Ok."

I know she'll cry. Later, in her room, she'll curl up and cry quietly into her pillow. In the morning, her face will be drawn and her eyes will be red. Prim will glare at me over our morning tea. I turn back to the mirror. I exhale and let my face settle into calm repose. I don't care. I can't care. That's the only way any of this will work.

Thanks for reading! Please review!


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

I drift back to the mirror. Just one last look before I amble down the stairs to join the living and mourn the dead. I wonder if he would like my new hair. I wonder if I would care what he thought if he wasn't dead. Maybe his death accentuates my affection. There's Gale to consider. I find I'm lost in my own reflection, remembering the cut of Gale's rough hands on my skin.

_"Did you mean what you said?" Gale asked. His fingers ghosted feather soft across my breasts and down my thigh. _

_Sweat dried tight and itchy across my forehead. I shivered as his fingers danced across the crest of my hipbone. "What did I say?" _

_He rested his head on my stomach. Idly, I ran my fingers through his hair "You'll be a part of this? When it happens, you'll be on our side?"_

The rebellion. He wanted to put my face on the posters. They wanted to brand their skin with my mockingjay. I could be one more thing the Capitol made that turned against them. I didn't remember agreeing. There are times my mouth moves with my brain's consent. I lose myself in my thoughts, in my fears, and suddenly I standing lost in my own kitchen. Prim is responding to my words that I can't seem to recall. I know my eyes should perceive my face in the mirror, but all I can see are the images inside my head. Gale's face easily turns to Peeta's grim lined countenance. I'm in my room, but then I'm back in that cave. My pulse races and my heart pounds. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand. I find my face in the mirror again.

"My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm 17 years old. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live in District 12." I twine my fingers in my necklace and hold it tight like the rosaries of old. "My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm 17 years old. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live in District 12." I repeat the words until that sickening sense of detachment wanes, until I can feel my feet on the hardwood floor.

The unmistakable clatter of Effie's heels echoes up the stairwell. I flatten my dress with sweat slick palms. I have no idea what I am going to say. I know Effie will have written me a speech to read. I'm certain if will be a perfunctory, sappy farewell. I shove my feet into the too tight leather. I don't want to do this. I swallow hard trying to choke back the matted ball of fear and sadness lodged in my throat.

Effie knocks gently on the door. "Katniss, if we don't leave now we'll be late."

There's nothing left to consider. The sooner it starts, the sooner it will end. I turn sharply on my heel. To my surprise, Effie is clad in all black. Her outfit screams restraint, not a sequin, bead, or feather in sight. I can't hide my shock at the sight of her demure silk shift.

She shifts uncomfortably. "I just thought…We're a team, aren't we?" She gestures towards my dress. "We should look the part."

I'm overwhelmed with a flood of unexpected affection for Effie Trinket. We are a team, I suppose. "You look lovely Effie."

She hands me a stack of crisp white note cards. "For the speech."

I bite back my reflexive contemptuous ire. I can't string words together with any coherence or even a semblance of meaning. Effie's words will have to do. I'll say what I have to if it means Prim stays safe. I can be the company's girl. I give a small strained smile. "Thank you Effie."

She nods her head awkwardly and eyes me warily. I think my lack of resistance may have set her off kilter. "Oh well, all right then, we should get going."

I wave her on. "Lead the way."

Haymitch leans against the banister at the end of the staircase. He picks at his nails with a small knife. "Morning sweetheart." He singsongs without looking up. "Let's get this shit show on the road."

He hasn't slept or showered. Lank dirty falls into his eyes. Pretending not to care is an ineffective strategy we both very much favor. He can pretend, but I know he cries for Peeta. I know his nights are filled with regret and his sleep with nightmares. We're a similar kind of animal.

I lean in close and take an exaggerated sniff. "You smell."

His red-rimmed eyes meet mine. "Luckily it's television, not smell-o-vision." He smiles a small feral grin.

Effie titers on the stairs. "Oh Haymitch. You couldn't of showered? We'll be on screens district-wide."

"Effie…" He glances up and pauses. He fumbles with his words. "Uh, um…You look nice." He adds abruptly. The terse admission lacks his usual sneer. He looks shocked at the sincerity of his observation.

Effie replies with a wary smile. "Thank you…You look…well you are here and on time."

"And really what more could you ask of me."

Effie breezes past him. "Nothing I suspect."

Haymitch glares at me when I laugh. "She does look nice."

I bite my lip. "Uh huh." I nod seriously.

"Shut up."

"Whatever you say Haymitch."


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

I can see the Peacekeepers gathering at the end of the driveway. They'll escort us into town. I gaze up at the sky. There's a chill in the air. It smells like snow. Haymitch rubs his hands together.

"Going to be a cold one."

The lines on Haymitch's face seem deeper today. "Is it easier this way?"

"What way?" He takes a pull from his flask.

"Playing pretend."

"Nothing's easy anymore." He offers me a drink.

The liquor burns. "Damn. That's strong stuff."

"It's that kind of a day, kid."

My fingers worry at the cards jammed into my coat pocket. The air around us is dead. There's no breeze to rustle the trees, no birds chirping up above. There's nothing to break the monotony of a dull winter's day. There's nothing to move us forward but sheer force of will. I stare at the sleek black car idling silently. I wait for Haymitch to make the first move, but he stares quietly off into the distance. Stymied, we stand motionless in the cold, suffocating under too much emotion and a whitewashed winter sky.

Effie bangs on the car window disturbing our idle daze. I jump. My teeth catch my tongue. Haymitch reaches for my arm to steady me. His blue eyes meet mine. My father would have given me a sad smile. He would have cupped my cheek and unleashed the heavy tears hanging in my throat. He wouldn't smell like alcohol and unwashed flesh. Haymitch gaze grows quizzical as the moment lingers on. He gives my arm a squeeze and the he nods. It's a small nod. Nothing more than a slight inclination of the head, but there's an understanding in that nod and maybe some affection too.

"Don't let them forget why they love you."

I nod dumbly. A tiny breeze of cold air stirs the bare trees. "Ok."

Effie rolls the window down and grasps at the glass, "Get in the car. We're going to be late!"

Haymitch relinquishes his grasp on my arm. He pushed his hair off his face and then opens the door with a dramatic flair.

"After you."

The sky opens up before we reach the Hall of Justice. We speed past a few people from the outskirts of District 12 slogging down the increasingly snow covered muddy roads.

"We should take them in with us." I look at Haymitch for support. The snow tumbles down in heavy flakes, coating everything in sight. The wind blows violently. One of the women pulls a flannel blanket tighter around her shoulders.

Haymitch shakes his head. "He won't stop. They won't stop for anything." He holds up his hands. "Believe me. I've tried. No dice."

I sit back in my seat with a disgusted huff. I could see the outline of her bony shoulders protruding through the blanket. Her little ones wrapped tightly in layers clinging to her skirt. The driver slows as the roads degrade further.

"Looks like the road is washed out." Haymitch observes. The driver coolly ignores him.

I press my face close to the glass in an attempt to see. Beside me, Effie gasps.

"What?"

"That girl, Katniss." Effie points an exquisitely manicured nail. "She looks just like you."

I wipe the gathered condensation off the window and examine the girl trekking by the car. She looks Seam. Dark hair, olive skin. Underfed. I recognize her from school. I think she was a few years younger. Bellamy Eames. She had a sister my age, Lira. She died from the cough last winter. I wipe the window again. Bellamy tugs on her coat. I didn't go back to school after the Games. It's easier to pretend I don't know next year's cannon fodder.

I turn back to Effie. "Bellamy Eames." We went to school together. She was funny."

"You could be sisters." Effie nods confidently. She pats my hand and points to another. "What about that girl? I love learning the different styles of names in all the districts. So exotic."

I gaze out at the girl through the back window. Are you still a sister if your sister dies? Does it still count? "I already have a sister."

Effie stills. "I know you do." She responds in an oddly serious tone. The moment fades and she's back to a constant state of frivolous motion: touching her hair, picking at imagined threads. She clears her throat. "Perk up. Cameras in five."

Haymitch snorts and salutes her with his flask. "Aye, aye, captain." Effie rolls her eyes. Haymitch tosses the flask to me in a fluid motion.

The metal is cool in my hand. "Cheers."

Effie wrinkles her nose. "_Really_, Katniss don't encourage him."

This time I don't wince as the liquid burns it way down. I hold the drink out to Effie with a shrug.

Effie scoffs. She gazes around the interior of the car exasperatedly. "Really, Katniss?" Haymitch smiles that shit eating grin of his. Effie looks fit to burst.

"Oh, ok. Fine! Fine!" She holds up her hands in surrender. "Under protest." She takes the flask and knocks back a healthy portion. "You all are bad influences, really. Drinking on the job, what's next?"

"I don't know, maybe some fun?" Haymitch floats the joke with a smirk, but it falls flat. The car goes quiet. Whatever is coming for us, I am certain it will not be fun. The car slows to stop. The doors unlock with a pop.

Effie checks her face in the mirror one more time. "Chins up, smiles on. Everyone. Showtime."

I climb out of the car. The Peacekeepers swarm me. Someone jams a large umbrella into my hand. We march in dramatic fashion towards the stage. Haymitch deliberately drags his feet until the head Peacekeeper jabs him with his gun. He's itching for a fight. I feel the same heat under my skin. I grab his hand to still the conflict. Maybe Haymitch doesn't have anything to lose, but I do. We finally reach the stage. A makeshift canopy has been erected to protect us from the snow. The rest of Twelve stands shivering in a sloppy clutter. I find Prim in the crowd. She smiles up at me.

Peeta's family stands clumped together on a platform suspended above the crowd. A video clip of his intro promo from the games is projected onto a large screen and plays on repeat. Every 30 seconds a new loop begins. He crosses his arms and looks straight into the camera, his mouth a thin tight line. Slowly, his posture relaxes, likely due to the prompting of the camera operators. I can remember their frivolous laughter. The atrophic languor of the photographer clad all in black. 'Come on Twelve, give us a smile. You'd be so much prettier if you smiled.' He cajoled and coaxed. I remember he sent me off with a disgusted huff. I watch Peeta's face relax. The tight line of his lips slips easily into a smile. Peeta was always so much better at playing their games. Tears prick at my eyes. The loop starts again. I watch him morph from sullen boy to charming young man. His mother eyes me icily. His father refuses to meet my stare. He fiddles idly with a worn white handkerchief. I can see the hitch in his shoulders as he holds in his sobs. Peeta's elder brothers, Dakin and Levi, stand solemnly behind their parents. They both share Peeta's strong jaw and blonde hair, but it's there the similarities end. Dakin, the eldest, is a bookish sort, standoffish and quiet. I'd never seen him without a book in his hands or carefully jammed into his pants' pocket. I don't think we've ever spoken, but he nods slightly when his eyes catch mine. Levi, however, stares coldly ahead. His broad meaty hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. When we were kids, Levi would torment Peeta as we walked home from school. He picked relentless at his smaller kid brother. Levi always flaunted his strength. He fought the other boys. At the fair every spring, he won the hammer toss, beating out the brute strength of the older men from the mines. Still, when Effie pulled Peeta's name out of the bowl, Levi never said a word. I'm not sure what kind of man that makes him.

"Katniss!" Effie murmurs my name in a harsh whisper. She plucks roughly at my sleeve. Haymitch looks on concerned. I guess I drifted away again. I shake my head to clear my thoughts.

Effie arches her brow. Her silent 'Get it together Katniss' rings clear. With one last look, she sashays towards the microphone with her painted on smile. Even in her simple black dress with her clean face, its clear Effie isn't one of us.

The loop of Peeta repeats. He's fierce and then that stupid smiles breaks across his face.

_"I don't know how to say it exactly. Only...I want to die as myself. I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not. I keep wishing I could think of a way to...to show the Capitol that they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games_."

…_then he gives me a smile that just seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me._

_"So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent...and right when your song ended, I knew - just like your mother - I was a goner."_

Peeta falls. He screams. The mutts roar. Bone and cartilage crack on sharpened teeth. Peeta's eyes are wide and dark. My arrow flies. The fletching brushes across my cheek. His skull splits with a haunting, wet, hollow sound.

I look up. I'm standing on stage. The eyes of the nation are on me and I am frozen. Haymitch shuffles me towards the microphone.

"Come on kid." He whispers into my ear.

I'm floating. Anxiety reverberates beneath my sternum and emanates through all my limbs. I step forward on shaky knees and wrap my frozen hands around the microphone. Effie's cards rest forgotten in my coat.

"You were a painter." My voice is small. "You were a baker. You liked to sleep with the windows open." An energy courses through me. I find my full voice. "You never took sugar in your tea. Your favorite color was orange. Like the sky right before sunset." I glance down at my feet. "And you always double-knotted your shoelaces."

Peeta's father chokes back a sob. He presses his hand tightly against his mouth, but when our eyes meet, he nods. Emboldened, I continue.

"You were kind. Always kind. Maybe too kind. You were brave too. All the way until the end. You didn't die a monster. You were more than just a pawn; you were a hero. I wouldn't be standing here if Peeta hadn't…" The sound of his name releases the deluge of tears I'd been withholding. "…Peeta…" That smile erupts across his face. I remember the crush of his lips against mine. I run my fingers across my lips. Three fingers, index, middle, and ring. "You saved me. You saved me in more ways than you'll ever know."

I loved him. It was fast and rough. Maybe it was more circumstance than anything. Maybe we wouldn't have lasted more than a week outside of the arena, but none of that matters now. I loved the boy with the bread.

"I loved you Peeta Mellark. I loved your kindness and your strength. I loved your stupid smile. I'll never forget us." I press a kiss against the three middle fingers of my left hand. I hold my hand out to the display of Peeta's smiling face. Slowly, the crowd does the same. They turn to honor Peeta. To say goodbye and I love you one final time to a son of District 12. The grandness of the gesture loses some of its sheen when I see the cameras of the Capitol turn towards the ground or up towards the sky. They don't want this moment to be seen. My stomach clenches and my hand wavers, but I won't forsake my chance at farewell, at honoring my fallen friend. If Snow sees this as a defiant act, then so be it.

I see the peacekeeper stirs. Several of the peacekeepers readjust their grips on their guns. They all eye the crowd warily. Haymitch clears his throat loudly behind me.

I hold the salute for just a moment longer. I'll be the Capitol's perfect girl tomorrow. Slowly my hand falls back to me side. "The Capitol thanks you for your sacrifice." The cameras flip back up to find my face. "Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever."


End file.
